


Lead Away By Imperfect Imposters

by kolmikaelson



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi-POV, [ oh ! ], [ tags will be added to when and if needed. ], [ that's all i can think of so far. but there's probably more. ]
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 03:30:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2333636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kolmikaelson/pseuds/kolmikaelson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The head of the famous Milton Empire disappears one night, leaving two of his sons, Michael and Raphael, to pick up the pieces and keep both a business that feels more like running the entire world, as well as their family, running smoothly. And together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lead Away By Imperfect Imposters

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is my first fan fic in a long while, I'm not sure how long it's gonna be or really where it's gonna go ( I only have a sort-of idea at the moment ), so I apologise if it's crappy, or if the instalments are slow to come! But basically, there's a lot of Supernatural characters that are unfairly condemned, and I wanted to write about them as well as just about TFW. But in a modern setting because why not ! So it's gonna be long, there's gonna be a fair few POV characters, so hopefully that won't get confusing. And IDK, just enjoy !
> 
> ( note: this is unbeta'd, so any typos etc. are my own mistakes from not checking well enough. )

Prologue

**MICHAEL**

As his fingers held on tightly, causing them to crumple as he shifted through pages and pages of unimportant documents that now littered across the desk, pulled out from the folders that had been piled on top, from files that he would regret disturbing in the morning, and from nearby draws of the office, the perfect tabloid prince of the Milton Business Empire’s eyes were narrowed, working hard with ( against ) the meagre excuse of light that the moon offered he and the room. He hadn't thought to switch on the light in his haste over there, and he was too caught up in what he was doing once he had gotten started to think about doing it now. The silver gleam curled and made the stark white of his shirt, rolled up hurriedly at the elbows, seem to shine something otherworldly against his dark hair and tanned skin. His body bent in sharp angles, as he searched through it all, trying to pick out something — anything at all, one simple word if that was what it took, one mistake, — that might have given him some sort of a hint toward what he was looking for. But what he was looking for wasn’t going to be answered by new client files, new business propositions, and a few invoices here and there.

     What he was looking for could only be answered by one man, and that one man hadn’t come home six hours ago.

      _And isn’t ever going to come home,_  his brain supplied, sounding out a defeat his body wasn’t willing to fall in line with just yet.

     It didn’t stop him, not much would. Not right then, not in his rush of panic, of an invisible hand around his throat that he wouldn’t acknowledge as  _fear_. His logical mind could very well take a back seat to the unwavering sense of loyalty he held, to the firm grasping at straws when he told himself that he was overreacting. That perhaps he was reading into all these silly little facts, that a normal person wouldn’t even blink at, wouldn’t think to question,  _wrong_.

     But his hands kept moving, his eyes kept scanning through every sentence, his fingers searched each drawer of the desk over and over again: he just needed something. A receipt, a journal, a number written down on a sticky-note. Anything.

     Anything that was out of the ordinary, anything that would reveal some substance of his father’s personal life. Not his business. Something that showed he had been there, that he had lived and worked there every day for as long as he had been born. Something that he could use to find him and bring him home. But there was nothing. It felt more like a museum than someone’s office. He had gone, and left nothing but a showroom behind, just like the office back home, the bedroom, too. Nothing there or where he stood could help him. Help _them_.

     He was still unsure as to what had given it away to him, had given a scratch at the back of his mind that their father was acting differently even though he wasn’t doing anything he wouldn’t usually do that morning. Perhaps it was the gazes cast out that had lingered too long on his four younger children still in high school: perhaps it had been the way he had asked about his wayward son, off in college, who had moved out a few months before and never rang: perhaps it was when he told him he was proud of him, that he was a better son than he could have wished for — that he was sorry about what he had made him do to his brother a month prior, but that in the long-run he was certain it would be for the better: and perhaps it way the way he hadn’t said in his goodbye that morning, that he’d see them all later.

     As he always would.

     It was everything. And it was Becky’s phone call that afternoon once she had been able to get trough to him, asking if his father was sick off that day, that lodged all those uncertain feelings inside him to fix together in perfect harmony. The worst puzzle picture they could have fixed into. He knew his father, knew he well enough to know. Why he wasn't answering his phone, why he was nowhere to be found; because he didn't want to be. He had been saying Goodbye, he had been taking a last look at his children, had been handing out a last olive branch of care to the one that was no longer living there to be heard later when it was no longer of import. What was the point in handing over a branch when it would be dropped hours later? When the child in question heard about it it would have blown away in the wind?

     Along with their father's ghost.

     When Michael finally stopped, when he could no longer stand and dropped, he did it with a sigh caught in his chest, his back hitting the seat of his father’s office chair, one knee bending in a V over the floor as the other drew up to his chest. And it was with shaking fingers that he reached up to loosen the deep blue tie that hung perfectly around his throat, trying to get some pressure off of the invisible, iron-grip, hold there. To breathe in a cool respite of air that he so desperately needed. To ease the sense of abandonment that had crashed over him. The mantra in his head telling him that it was all going to be okay, that it was always okay and that he wouldn’t let up until their lives were perfect again. Until he found out why.

     There was nothing there. Nothing personal, nothing at all. No sign of where he might have been. No hint as to a reason why he was just no longer there. Not even photographs; and that was what sealed it. He knew then it was real, their father had always had photographs of them, he had been so proud of them, he wouldn’t have gotten rid of them unless he planned on going where they would be.

     And Christ! no one even knew yet, the other’s had wondered what he was doing in their father’s office at home, why their father hadn’t come home yet, and he had just told them he had been working late. That he needed Michael to get a file and bring it to him at the Milton Building. He’d left as soon as he found nothing there, running into Raphael who had known something was up, of course, on the way out. He could tell something was off and conveyed that to him with a simple glance, no words pried for answers because no one pushed Michael didn’t push, before Michael had rushed out and closed the door behind himself. His own returning smile had been tight, and the jerky nod, quick, a promise to let him know as soon as he could. As soon as he could be sure himself.

     How was he supposed to tell them this? That their father hadn’t been into work, that he hadn’t called to say where he was and why he wasn’t working. That he wasn't answering anyone trying to get a hold of him? That he hadn’t come home, but he also hadn’t been at the office working late, that he had just _gone_. Without a word, without a sound.

     Without reason.

     He wouldn’t, he realised as he forced himself to take a few calming breaths, slow and sharp. Knives finding home in his lungs. He would perhaps tell Raphael, and maybe even Gabriel if he would actually want to know, but he wouldn’t tell the others. He wouldn’t tell them they’d all been abandoned for no reason; for his own pride, for his father’s name, and for his siblings, who didn’t need to feel like they were to blame. Who didn’t need to feel the way that he did. He would tell them their father had gone on something like a business holiday across the world, that he would be gone for as long as he was needed. That he was setting up another branch in Europe or something of the like, but that it was a secret and they couldn’t let anyone know, and that they might not hear from him for a while.

     And he would keep the press in the dark, too. He would tell them his father was having health issues, and that he was giving Michael the orders from behind closed doors.

     And it would all be fine.

     Or so he thought he could lie to himself. It wasn't the best plan, he knew it, but he didn't have time to think up much else. Michael was a good son, and he would keep everything afloat for as long as it was needed, and he would not pull his father’s name through the mud. No matter what.

     For a long while only the sound of his heavy breathing could he heard, each one that dragged up out through his nose was purposefully controlled as his mind raced and span inside his head, as he steeled himself to do whatever he had to in his father's stead. Until he pulled his phone out from his pocket, the tremors that had before taken over his hands having stopped by the time he punched a number into the speed dial.

     'Raphael,' he said into the handset, the word impossibly quiet, holding sorrow behind the natural firmness of it, ‘can you come into the office, please?’

     It was half-past-one in the morning. And the eldest son of Charles Milton had an internationally-known business empire dumped upon his own two shoulders.


End file.
